


i hear your voice on the phone (now i’m no longer alone)

by floresque



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27373714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floresque/pseuds/floresque
Summary: Bucky plucks the paper from the table and unfolds it, surprised to find a neat scribble of numbers. “What’s this?” Natasha jerks her head over to where Wanda is serving another customer, and smirks. “Her number. Since you clearly weren’t going to ask for it.” [or: modern au where Bucky ends up spending the summer with the waitress he’d gotten tongue tied around.]
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Wanda Maximoff, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	i hear your voice on the phone (now i’m no longer alone)

**i hear your voice on the phone (now i’m no longer alone)**

“Come _on,_ jerk,” Steve urges with a laugh, pulling him by the arm. 

“I still can’t believe you woke me up at such an ungodly hour just to go to a _diner_ ,” Bucky grunts, allowing Steve to drag him down the block and squinting as the sun beams down against his face. The streets are relatively quiet, save a few cars occasionally driving by, a few giggling kids and their annoyed, but secretly amused parents walking past, and a few teenagers riding their bikes and skateboards up and down the sidewalk.

“It’s almost eleven, Buck,” his friend says, pointedly ignoring his noises of protest. 

“Eleven’s _early,_ ” he whines, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “It’s summer, Steve. We can sleep in for as long as we want.” 

“Well, today just seemed like a perfect day to get out.” 

Bucky observes the blonde for a moment, watches as he struggles to keep an impassive face, and retorts, “You just want to see Natasha, don’t you.” 

“Maybe.” Steve grins at his fresh wave of groans, and explains, “She’s working the morning shift today, and told me to stop by sometime again.” 

“Does sometime _have_ to be today?” Bucky asks, a yawn slipping past his lips. “Normally I’d be all for you finally shooting your shot, but couldn’t you have done it _without_ waking me up?” 

They stop just at the end of the block as they don’t yet have the light, and Steve turns to him with wide eyes. “Woah, who said I was shooting my shot?” 

He shrugs. “You have to at some point, punk.”

“No, I don’t, jerk.”

“Yes, you _do_.” 

“No, I _don’t_.”

“I hate you.”

“Liar, you love me.”

“Yeah, maybe a little. But I would admit it more often if you stopped being difficult for once,” Bucky mutters, scowling at Steve’s grin and the clap on his shoulder. 

“Where’s the fun in that? Come on, we have the light.” 

After a few more minutes of walking (and complaining, on Bucky’s part), they’re standing in front of an old-fashioned looking diner with _Loretta’s_ inscribed in big neon red letters above clear glass doors, an _open_ sign hanging on the inside of the left door. Steve tugs on the door handle and as they step inside, Bucky finds that this is one of those restaurants that looks even nicer on the inside than the outside – the whole setup seems 50’s inspired, with checkered tiles lining the floors and framed posters (he particularly notes and grins at a _West Side Story_ movie poster) and music albums (like _Songs for Swingin’ Lovers_ by Frank Sinatra) hanging from bright pink walls; turquoise-padded booths organized across the large space, with high chairs arranged in front of a long window to the left of the doors; sunlight pouring in from the many windows – enough to brighten the place, but not overdone to the point where it drowns out the red and yellow LED beams stretching around the perimeter of the ceiling, and the lamps set up at each table; and finally, a large counter towards the back which separates the kitchen from the rest of the diner – where one Natasha Romanoff happens to be seated behind. 

“There’s Tasha,” Bucky says, giving Steve a light whack on the arm. “Now, go ask her out so we can _leave_ —”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” comes a polite, cheerful greeting from a woman who slides in front of them – she looks to be in her early thirties, with brown skin and thick curly hair that touches her shoulders, and possibly the kindest smile he’s ever seen. The name tag that’s pinned to her shirt reads _Loretta,_ and _oh,_ this must be the diner’s owner— “How may I help you today?”

Bucky opens his mouth to tell her that they aren’t staying, that they’re only here so _this punk can ask out the girl he’s been fawning over since high school,_ when Steve beats him to it, “Table for two, ma’am.” 

The woman – _Loretta_ – smiles with a nod and waves a hand, directing them to follow. She leads them over to a window booth that isn’t too far from the counter (he’s not sure if it’s just a mere coincidence, or if Loretta knew they were here for Natasha, but he sure isn’t complaining), provides them with menus, and informs them that someone will arrive to take their order shortly. 

“This place is nice,” Bucky remarks after Loretta leaves, looking around at all the people gathered at different tables – he spots a few construction workers in a booth similar to theirs, all sporting cups of coffee and bagels; an older couple in a more secluded corner of the diner, their arms looped and fingers intertwined as they sit in a rounded booth together (this may or may not have made him smile a little); a much younger couple and their children sitting at one of the larger seating tables in the middle of the area (he counts about _seven_ kids, half of which are loud toddlers, _plus_ a baby in a wooden high chair; he sends a silent prayer over to the tired looking parents.)

“And you were giving me hell for coming here,” Steve says smugly, opening up his menu. 

“No, I was giving you hell for waking me up, punk.”

“Jerk.”

Bucky shakes his head with a huff of a laugh, flipping his own menu open to a random page. He’s scanning over some sort of omelette that he doesn’t know the name of when he hears the voice of the waitress ring to his left. 

“Good morning, my name is Wanda and I’ll be your server today. Is there anything I can get you?” 

Bucky pulls his attention away from his menu and opens his mouth to respond— 

But the words die in his throat at the sight of the waitress. He can’t think of any other word to describe her other than beautiful, and even _that_ word doesn’t do her justice.

Her uniform is simple – a short sleeved polo shirt with the _Loretta’s_ logo stitched onto the front corner and jeans, along with a red apron tied around her torso. Her hair is down, cascading nearly to her waist in dark, chestnut waves, and the sunlight streaming from the window makes her skin practically glow. She’s holding a server notepad and a pencil between her hands, and he notes the several rings adorning her fingers, all simply for aesthetics. Her smile is bright, and her eyes are kind, and she looks like a freaking _goddess,_ and sure, he’s gone out with a few girls, but no matter how stunning they were, he doesn’t think any one of them could possibly compare to her—

He’s broken out of his reverie at the feel of a kick to his shin underneath the table. 

“I’m sorry, my friend here is, uh, sleep deprived,” he hears Steve explain in that awkward way of his, and Bucky just _blinks_ at the guy because – _what_ kind of an excuse is that? (He supposes it’s better than _‘my friend was gawking at you because apparently he’d never seen someone as beautiful as you – sorry?’)_ “He’ll have the same order as mine, thank you.” 

The waitress ( _Wanda,_ she’d said her name was – gosh, even her _name_ is pretty) smiles politely, a hint of _something_ shining in her eyes when she looks at him, then back to Steve. “Alright, I’ll get back with you as soon as I can.” 

She collects their menus quickly, and it’s when she leaves, and he’s watching her go, does Bucky think he’s finally able to _breathe_ again. 

He turns his attention to Steve. 

“What did you order?” 

“Eggs, pancakes, bacon, coffee,” he states, mirth filling his gaze. “But you would’ve known that, right?”

Bucky hears the implication and just _thunks_ his head on the table with a groan. “I stared at her like an idiot, didn’t I,” he mumbles, chagrined – Steve’s amused chuckle doesn’t exactly help. 

“You most definitely did, jerk.” 

“You couldn’t have kicked me sooner?” he mutters, his voice slightly muffled by the table (hell, he might be looking like an idiot right _now,_ with his head on the table like this.) 

He straightens and his eyes – on their own volition, really – search the diner for their waitress. When he finds her, setting down drinks on the old couple’s table with a wide smile, the corners of his mouth twitch, his lips threatening to split into a smile of his own. 

“Just talk to her when she comes back over,” Steve advises after a few minutes of him plain out staring, and Bucky looks back at him as if he’s grown a second head – just the mere _thought_ of speaking to her terrifies him, an absolutely new feeling he does _not_ want to experience _ever_ again. 

“What am I supposed to _say?_ ” he hisses, as if the woman can somehow hear them. 

“I don’t know,” Steve studies him with curious eyes. “You’ve never had problems talking to women before.” 

“Well, _yeah,_ but that’s because…” Bucky trails off, not exactly having a logical answer. 

Steve quirks an unimpressed eyebrow, _knowing_ he doesn’t have an answer, and prompts, “Because?” 

“Because she’s… _different_.” 

“You’ve only known her for ten minutes,” he retorts flatly (has it really been _ten minutes?_ ) “And you haven’t even _talked_ to her, yet.”

Bucky huffs, crossing his arms in a purposely childlike manner. “You’re no help.”

“I just offered you extremely helpful advice that you’re choosing to ignore,” Steve points out. “If anything, _you’re_ no help to yourself.” 

“Hey, don’t talk to me about ignoring advice – you’ve been ignoring mine for the past three years.” Bucky gives a pointed look to where Natasha is behind the counter, and Steve turns about as red as the woman‘s hair. 

“Fine,” he fires back, and starts to shift out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.” 

“What? What are you doing?”

“Proving that I’m better at taking advice than you,” Steve flashes him a grin, and strides over towards the counter. His bravado is a facade, they both know, and he’s probably going to end up tripping over his words (or tripping _literally_ ) but it’s better than nothing, Bucky supposes. 

“Punk,” he grumbles to himself. “Drags me here then leaves.” 

And of course, it’s when Steve _leaves_ does their waitress happen to return with their food. 

“Thank you,” Bucky says as she places their cups of coffee on two coasters. 

She meets his eyes then, giving him a little smile. “No problem.” 

As she’s setting the plates on the table, a sudden, gut wrenching _wail_ pierces the air, followed by a series of hysterical cries and sobs. Bucky winces and looks over at the table holding the large family – particularly at the youngest looking toddler currently bawling his eyes out while simultaneously screaming at the top of his lungs. (From what it looks like, the boy spilled his juice all over himself and what was left of his food – Bucky can’t really blame the kid for crying there.)

At the mother’s failed attempt at calming the overwrought child, Bucky snickers.

Wanda breathes out a laugh too, albeit a bit embarrassedly, and says to him, “I’m sorry about that.” 

“Don’t be,” he reassures with a wave of his hand. “Kids are kids.”

Thankfully, _this_ kid’s parents were able to quiet him quickly, and right as she’s about to leave, he asks, “Busy day today, huh?” 

She looks up at him, a little surprised, before her face breaks into a breathtaking smile as she looks around the diner. “Yeah. Busier than usual. I don’t normally work mornings, but Clint’s away on vacation with his family, so I’m covering his shifts for a while.”

Bucky nods, and somewhat gaining his confidence back (because she’s actually _talking_ to him, and not shuffling away uncomfortably like he’s some sort of weirdo), he says, “Well, I wouldn’t _entirely_ mind waking up early and coming to this place if it means you’ll be here.” 

He tries to make his voice sound more playful and less – what, _creepy?_ – and it must work, for she _laughs_ (a genuine, melodic laugh that almost takes his breath away) and shakes her head a little. “I bet you say that to all the pretty waitresses.” 

“Only pretty waitress who needs to hear it is you, doll,” he replies with a charming smile, which he _really_ hopes he’s pulling off right now, and her eyes study him curiously. 

“You’re kind of smooth for someone who looked like they were going to collapse when I first came over here,” she points out. 

Bucky merely shrugs, “Is it my fault you’re gorgeous?” 

Wanda mimics the motion, a smile tugging at her lips as she tucks the empty tray she’d placed the food on underneath her arms. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She huffs out a laugh. “What’s your name, flirt?” 

“You know, I honestly would not mind you calling me flirt for the rest of my life,” he quips with a grin, and she easily returns the expression. Then, he answers, “James Barnes, or Bucky.” 

And just to his luck, Loretta picks exactly _this_ moment to quickly stride past their table and put a hand on Wanda’s arm, a smirk twitching at the edges of her lips as she mutters a low, “Back to work, dear.”

Bucky resists the urge to pout, and the disappointment seems to be mirrored on Wanda’s own face, but she gives him another easy smile when she meets his gaze again. “Well, James, I have to go, but let me know if there is anything else you need.” 

“Will do, Miss Wanda.” 

She smiles widely and spins on her heel, making her way over to the counter where a few more drinks and plates of food wait for her (he thinks he hears Natasha drawl a smugly satisfied _“bravo,”_ and he thinks he hears a _“shut up”_ followed by a laugh.) 

“What’re you so happy about?” comes a curious inquiry as Steve slides back into his seat, plucking a knife and fork from the table and beginning to cut into his pancakes. 

“Huh?”

“You were smiling like Christmas came early while looking over there—” Steve pauses, looking between him, their plates and their waitress (who Bucky can’t seem to take his eyes off of – again.) “You actually talked to her.” 

Bucky grins. “I may or may not have taken your advice. Did you take mine with Tasha?”

“Yep,” Steve confirms with a wide smile. “We’re going out on Friday.”

“Took you long enough. How’d you do it?”

“Well, I actually tripped on my way over there…” 

After eating and, of course, discussing how this date was going to go, Steve pays for the food ( _“it’s only fair, you know, since I’m the one who dragged you here…”_ ) and Wanda soon returns with their receipt. 

“And here you go,” she places the sheet of paper on the table between them and hands Steve back his credit card. 

“Thank you,” Steve says gratefully, and Bucky echoes it.

Then he jolts a little, murmuring a quick “oh” as he digs into his pocket for his wallet – he pulls out a crisp twenty and holds it out to her. “Here.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, no, that’s too much—”

“Please. Call it compensation for almost getting you in trouble with your boss.” 

She stares at him for a moment with piercing, mesmerizing eyes, and a slow, brilliant smile spreads across her face when she finds him to be earnest. “Thank you.”

“No problem, doll.” 

A few minutes later, they’re shuffling out of the window booth, about to walk to the door when Natasha calls out, “Barnes.”

When he turns, she beckons him over, and when he reaches the counter, she slides over a folded slip of paper. “Here.” 

Bucky plucks the paper from the table and unfolds it, surprised to find a neat scribble of numbers. “What’s this?” 

“Her number,” Natasha jerks her head over to where Wanda is serving another customer, and smirks, adding, “Since you clearly weren’t going to ask for it.”

“Is that…legal?” he asks weakly. 

Natasha laughs, brushing a lock of red hair from her eyes. “If you’re asking if she’d be okay with it, trust me. She was looking at you the same way you were looking at her.” He flushes at that, and Steve elbows his side teasingly. “Her break starts at twelve, ends at twelve-thirty. Make sure you call.”

“So you’re a matchmaker now, Romanoff?” Steve quips, and Bucky rolls his eyes at his flirtatious tone (on the _one_ day it truly mattered, _he_ was unable to flirt yet his best friend _was_.)

“When I want to be, Rogers,” Natasha replies with another smirk. 

This time, a groan tears from Bucky’s throat, and he clasps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, pulling him away from the counter before he can find something witty to respond with. “Let’s go, punk. He’ll see you later, Tasha.” 

And as they’re walking out the door, Bucky turns his head, and somehow catches Wanda’s gaze over his shoulder. 

She smiles at him. 

Her phone number burns warm in his pocket. 

⁺˚*･༓

He twists the paper between his fingers, his eyes flickering between it and the bright screen of his phone as he chews on his bottom lip nervously. A quick glance at the clock on his nightstand for perhaps the third time—

_12:03 PM._

Bucky groans, flopping down on his bed, careful to avoid accidentally pressing the _call_ button (the green telephone icon only seems to taunt him further as the seconds pass by) on his phone. The series of numbers inscribed on the scrap of paper is already typed into the keypad – and he only has twenty-seven minutes left to decide whether or not he wants to call. 

He’s not even sure why he’s having the issue; his reputation certainly precedes him. Like Steve had said earlier, he’s never had any trouble talking to women before. 

But then again, he’s never encountered a woman like her before, so maybe, just _maybe,_ he’s a _little_ bit intimidated. (And by a little bit, he means he’s never been this terrified to make a damn phone call in his life. Not to be dramatic, or anything.)

 _Hurry the hell up and call,_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Natasha’s echoes in his head, and he sighs up at the ceiling before mentally shoving his anxieties to the side, mustering up the courage to tap the button. 

The keypad melts away to the darker screen that shows that _he’s actually dialing her number,_ and Bucky brings the phone to his ear with a shaking hand, exhaling his nerves away (hopefully) and listening to the line slowly ring once, twice. 

By the third ring, he’s prepared to hear the _“your call has been forwarded…”_ and leave her a voicemail (should he even do _that?_ He doesn’t even _know_ this girl) when the line suddenly picks up and— 

_“Hello?”_

Bucky swallows down the rock that’s practically lodged in his throat, and with a light intake of breath, he chokes out, “Hey, doll.” 

The line is quiet for a moment, and a surge of worry gnaws at his chest, for she probably had tons of customers and had already forgotten him and _God,_ this was a _bad idea—_

A sound on the other end of the line fills his ears, and it takes Bucky a second to realize that she’s _laughing._ (Even on the phone, her laugh sounds like bells.) _“Nat gave you my number, didn’t she?”_

Bucky breathes out a nervous chuckle, relief coursing through his body at the pure amusement in her tone. “Yeah, she did. I’m sorry, I hope this isn’t a bad time, I don’t want to distract you from anything you’re doing—” 

_“James, it’s okay,”_ she cuts in with another laugh – his heart swells at the fact that she remembers his name. _“I’m on my break right now, my shift starts back up in a few.”_

“Yeah I know, Natasha told me what time your break started.”

 _“She did, huh.”_

“That’s Tasha for you,” he says, steeling himself and strengthening his resolve before clearing his throat pointedly. “So, uh, I just called to ask if you want to do something, or go somewhere when your shift is done? If you won’t be busy after, that is…”

 _”Sure,”_ she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. _“I’m working until three, but I’ll see you later?”_

Bucky can’t help the giddiness that seeps into his voice as he replies, “Definitely, doll.” 

When he hangs up, he makes sure to save her contact into his phone. 

(He may or may not have added her contact to his favorites list.) 

⁺˚*･༓

Bucky goes to _Loretta’s_ nearly every morning over the next two weeks to see her, and when Clint gets back from vacation and she’s back to working the less busy afternoon shifts, it’s easier for him to convince Loretta to let him stay longer – even to help clean and lock up the diner. (It took _days_ of begging for that one, because whenever he “helps”, he and Wanda would fool around to the point where they’d end up staying hours past closing time – the woman agreed to three days a week, which, in his opinion, is an absolute win.)

Today was, thankfully, one of those days, and he’s wiping down one of the tables when he hears shuffling near the back. Turning, he finds Wanda standing on a tall chair, reaching up to power on the dual speaker box stationed in a little space within the pink walls. 

“What are you doing?”

“We can’t work in silence,” Wanda replies over her shoulder, and she steps down from the chair to plug the speakers’ cord into her phone. She scrolls for a few moments, and Bucky goes back to cleaning tables when he hears it. 

That song. 

The damn song that _never stops playing_ in stores and malls during December. (He shudders at the mere _thought_ of going into a Macy’s during the holiday season.)

_I don’t want a lot for Christmas_

_There is just one thing I need_

“You _do_ know it’s the middle of June, right?” Bucky says with a quirk of an eyebrow, amused. Wanda puts the volume on blast, snatches a broom from a corner of the room, and spins as she sweeps. 

“Close enough, flirt.” 

“This song’s overplayed,” he points out, sauntering over towards her. He manages to snatch her hand before she spins out of his reach, and he twirls her closer to him, plucking the broom from her fingers and putting it aside. 

“Don’t disrespect Mariah Carey.” 

Bucky shrugs, and they continue dancing around each other. “No disrespect, only facts.” 

“Nope, you’re a hater,” she grins, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Admit it.” 

He gasps theatrically, putting a mocking hand on his chest. “Me? A hater? Take it back.”

Wanda stretches up on her tiptoes, a teasing spark in her eyes as she challenges, “No.” 

Bucky bends down and wraps his arms around her torso, and she squeals in surprise, arms latching around his neck as he lifts and spins her around the diner. She’s laughing, and he ends up laughing with her, and they don’t stop spinning and dancing until—

“So _this_ is what takes you so long to get home,” a man – who looks to be in his early twenties; pale skin, messy dark brown hair like Wanda’s (but with streaks of silver?) and a cocky smirk plastered onto his face – exclaims over the music, his arms crossed and amusement coloring his tone. 

Wanda yelps, jumping in surprise _._ She looks from the man to the digital clock on the adjacent wall, and a little “oh” manages to slip past her lips. 

“Yeah, _oh,”_ the man continues, though he doesn’t seem all that upset. “Not sure about the music choice, though – it’s literally June.”

“Exactly what I told her,” Bucky points out with a fond glance in Wanda’s direction. 

The other man’s eyes land on him then – they narrow briefly before widening, and a grin easily splits his face as he looks to Wanda and says, “Wait, is this him, the one who smooth talked you that day? Who Nat gave your number to, and who you droned on and on to me about ever since?” 

Though he doesn’t know the man, Bucky already decides he likes him. 

Beside him, Wanda rolls her eyes, but he doesn’t miss the blush that tints her cheeks. She slides over the countertop (at some point, they managed to dance their way behind the counter) and moves to turn down the music. “Shut up, Pietro.” 

The man – _Pietro_ – raises his hands in mock surrender with a cheeky grin. “Shutting up,” he prances forward until he reaches the counter, and flops down into one of the chairs. He sticks his hand out to Bucky, and Bucky takes it. “I’m Pietro, Wanda’s twin brother.” 

_Ah,_ he _does_ remember Wanda mentioning a twin brother. She just never told him a name. He smiles, giving the other man’s hand a firm shake before releasing. “Bucky, but that one, over there,” he jerks his head towards Wanda, “calls me James.”

“Nice to meet you,” Pietro’s tone is genuine, and he wears a broad smile. “You know, normally I would interrogate any guy who has the balls to talk to my sister, but since you’re dancing to _All I Want For Christmas_ in the middle of summer with her at her job, I don’t think I should be worried.”

Wanda pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation, and Bucky just laughs. 

⁺˚*･༓

 _“Okay, question four. Uh…”_ she trails off, and Bucky props himself up on his elbows and drifts closer to his phone in anticipation, waiting for her voice to flood the speaker. After a few passing seconds, she asks, _“What’s something about you that most people don’t know?”_

He hums, clicking his teeth while pondering the question – though Bucky considers himself to be a pretty open person, there are a few things people wouldn’t normally think he’d be interested in. 

“I can play the guitar,” he answers. “And a little piano.” 

_“Really?”_ Wanda asks, surprise filling her voice. 

“Yeah, my Ma took me to piano lessons, and she taught me how to play the guitar herself.” 

_“What’s your favorite piece?”_

“On guitar or piano?” he quips playfully, grinning at her laugh. 

_“Either one.”_

“Honestly, I think _Für Elise_ will always be a classic for me,” Bucky responds, and she makes a noise of agreement. “What about you? What’s something most people don’t know about you?”

 _“I want to be a psychologist,”_ she says after a moment of thinking. _“I don't know, mental health and well-being is important to me. I’ve gotten past my own issues and insecurities, and I want to help other people get past theirs knowing they’re not alone.”_

Not expecting that answer, he’s stunned to silence, suddenly reminded all over again at how utterly remarkable this woman is, and after a few seconds, “Doll?”

_“Yeah?”_

“You’re amazing.”

A bright burst of laughter fills his ears. _“It’s your turn, flirt.”_

“Alright, question five…okay, so everyone has a scar they’ve gotten when they were a kid because they did something stupid.” She snorts on the other end of the line, and he grins. “Where’s your scar, and how’d you get it?”

Wanda hums thoughtfully. _“Ah, okay. So my brother used to run a lot when we were younger, and I was always chasing after him. We were four, and one day our mother told us to stop running in the house but we didn’t listen, and I ran right into the edge of the dining table and pretty much passed out. I have a dent in my forehead from that day.”_

“A _dent?_ ” Bucky exclaims incredulously, mouth agape. “How come I’ve never noticed?” 

_“I have to scrunch my forehead for it to be visible,”_ Wanda explains, clearly amused.

“Did it hurt?”

 _“Badly,”_ she responds with a laugh. _“Our mother was mad as hell that day. But what about you?”_

Bucky rolls onto his back, face splitting into a wide grin at a memory. “Okay. I was eight, and there was this dead end road near my old house that nobody would drive down, but my dad would always park his car there. Me, Steve and a couple of our other friends decided it would be fun to play Marco Polo, but we didn’t think anything of the car. When I was Marco—wait, no, I was _calling_ Marco, so I was Polo? I think?” 

_“You were Polo,”_ she confirms. 

“Right, I was Polo, so my eyes were closed and I was just following the sounds of their voices, and then I thought one of them was close to me so I sprinted in that direction and ran right into the car mirror and split my head open,” Wanda makes a pained noise. “I had to get five stitches, and the scar’s still there.” 

_“See, I couldn’t even tell that you had a scar in the first place.”_

“I’ll show you mine tomorrow if you show me yours.”

 _“Deal,”_ she says with a little laugh. _“Speaking of tomorrow, where are we going?”_

“Anywhere’s fine as long as you’re there, doll,” Bucky says cheekily. 

He can practically picture her fond eye roll. _“Flirt.”_

⁺˚*･༓

“Are you sure this is safe?” 

He ducks through his window and feels the cool breeze tickle his skin the moment he steps onto the fire escape, and he chuckles at her slightly worried look. “Of course, it’s safe.” He moves to the ledge and grips the rusted railing, patting the space next to him. “Come on, we’re going to miss them.”

Wanda huffs, and swings her leg over the sill, gracefully sliding herself through the window. He tears his eyes away from her – with difficulty – and overlooks the view. 

The sun hovers just slightly above the horizon, casting tall shadows across the neighboring buildings, and streaks the sky with splashes of pink, red and orange, the colors blending perfectly into the vast outstretch and illuminating the rest of the street in a golden glow. 

Bucky doesn’t usually come out onto the fire escape, but when he does, it’s always to see the scenery like this – or when it’s the fourth of July and his neighbors would light the best fireworks down the street as the sun sets, and he’d much rather watch them than the ones on TV. 

And, naturally, he invited Wanda. 

She steps tentatively over towards where he stands, propping her elbows up on the ledge and her shoulder brushes against his arm. His gaze manages to find its way back to her on its own volition, and though she’s not facing him, he can tell she’s at peace right now. Her lips are curled upwards into an easy smile, and the breeze flows nicely through her hair, the golden rays of the sun lightening her brunette waves and catching her skin.

 _God,_ she’s gorgeous. 

Feeling his gaze, she turns her head to peer up at him from her ridiculously long eyelashes, question yet contentment laced in her orbs, and he’s about to tell her exactly what he’d been thinking when something catches his attention—

“Your eyes are green,” Bucky states, almost dumbly. She tilts her head giving him a small, confused smile. 

“You didn’t know?” 

He shakes his head, staring at her iridescent orbs. “I just thought they were brown. Now they look…both?” 

“They change color,” she explains with a chuckle. “Some days they’re brown, others, green, and most days they’re in between.” 

“I like them,” he remarks. 

She’s about to respond when they hear the sound of the first rocket going up, and they both whip their heads towards the end of the street where the neighbors are lighting the fuses. 

They watch the first red flare as it ascends, a thin plume of smoke steadily trailing behind until it winks out, only to burst open a moment later with a resounding _boom,_ and crackles of red against the orange sky. Another pops up into the air almost immediately after, exploding in a riot of sound, this time with brilliant blue sparks streaming down like rainfall. 

The rest follow in a steady procession of red, blue, white and gold, but there were other colors, too – a bright neon green, a vivid pink, and a dark purple, and they’re all so remarkably _big_ that Bucky has to tilt his head up to see them in their entirety. 

“Wow,” Wanda breathes from beside him after a while (it’s a wonder in itself that he can _hear_ her over the thunderous booms and crackles) and he chances a glance at her – and he’s so glad he did. 

Her face is filled with complete and utter awe, and her eyes wide and watchful as the colors rain down. She’s beaming, leaning forward with her head tilted towards the sky, completely enraptured with the display, and the colored glow of the fireworks illuminates her skin brilliantly. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen her this carefree – this _happy._ “It’s beautiful,” she says.

“Yeah,” Bucky smiles, shifting his hand until it brushes against hers. “It is.” 

⁺˚*･༓

“Are you ready?” 

“Not yet,” comes the muffled reply from behind the bathroom door. 

Bucky doesn’t even try to stifle his groan. “ _Doll,_ you take _forever_. We’re going to be late.” 

“Are _you_ ready?” Wanda counters, and he turns back towards the vanity mirror, combing his fingers through his almost shoulder length hair while eyeing his maroon button-up dress shirt and jeans. 

“Yep,” he calls after a moment, when he finally achieves the style of messy his hair looks best in. He loosens the top button of his shirt, exposing his neck and a single silver chain with a tiny cross hanging from the end of it. “But that doesn’t matter because _you,_ doll, are _not_ ready.”

Then, the door clicks, and he turns his head at the sound of it swinging open. She replies with some sort of sassy retort, but Bucky isn’t listening – he’s much too absorbed with looking at the woman in front of him. 

She’s wearing a long sleeved black, slightly off-the-shoulder fitted top (which serves to only further emphasize her curves) with distressed jeans, fishnet leggings underneath the deliberate rips. He hears the faint click of heels against the floor as she walks over to the mirror, and when he looks, the ends of her jeans are tucked into black lace heeled boots. Several chains dangle from her neck – some long, others short, and as she runs her ring-adorned fingers through her hair (per usual, it spills over her shoulders and down her back like bold, brunette curtains) he notices a couple hoop bracelets encircling her wrists, matching in color to their earring counterparts that hang from her lobes. 

She doesn’t wear much makeup, other than a few touches of mascara and clear lip gloss, and this may be the _hundredth_ time he’s thought this in the time that he’s known her (and honestly, Bucky has no shame whatsoever; he’ll think it over and over again if he has to), she is fucking _gorgeous_. 

Bucky doesn’t even realize that he’s been staring for so long until Wanda snaps her fingers in front of his face, mirth filling her eyes. 

“I thought we were in a hurry?” she quips wryly. “You’re staring _exactly_ like the day we first met.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Bucky rolls his eyes, refusing to show his embarrassment at being caught ( _again_ ), and gives her a much subtler once over. “No oversized t-shirts and sweatshirts this time?” 

Wanda shrugs a little, turns back to the mirror and tells him, “I decided to switch it up a little.”

He nods appreciatively. “Not bad.” Understatement. She’s _literally_ a goddess. 

“Not bad yourself,” she responds, eyes scanning him through the mirror in a quick once over of her own, and she adds with a tilt of her head, “I’ve never seen you in a dress shirt.” 

He grins down at her. “Then I guess tonight is full of surprises.” 

“You have the tickets?” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

Later, after they’ve stumbled down the nighttime streets in fits of giggles (they may or may not have shared an entire bottle of wine), waited in a _ridiculously_ long line that, for some odd reason, seemed to move really fast, and given their tickets to security, she’s looping her arm through his and tugging him into the stadium, and the flashing, multicolored lights are nearly blinding, the booming roar of the crowd loud enough to make the entire ground vibrate. 

The area is large, with the overhead view of the moon and stars visible, though their light is drowned out by the bright neon blues, violets, oranges, and more – as they push through the crowd closer to the front, he notices a few glow sticks, glow necklaces and bracelets latched around people’s wrists and necks. Studio lights ranging from purple to indigo beam down onto the spacious stage, where a group of artists, each of them (minus the drum’s player) holding a guitar of some sort, are playing and singing their damn hearts out. 

_So can I call you tonight_

_I’m trying to make up my mind_

Bucky doesn’t know the band (if it even _is_ a band) nor does he remember the name tagged on the tickets. But the song is good, and Wanda’s singing along beside him so he just matches the energy of the crowd. 

_Just how I feel_

_Could you tell me what’s real?_

He manages to find her hand and spins her (he _loves_ doing that), and somehow he can hear her laugh over the noise of the bouncing crowd, over the music blaring in his ears. Wanda smiles, wider than he’s ever seen before, and throws her arms around his neck. He clings to her then, breathing in her scent (vanilla, with a hint of lavender, like always.)

_I hear your voice on the phone_

_Now I’m no longer alone_

His head is pounding (maybe wine _before_ the concert was a bad idea?) but he doesn’t care. He straightens, lifting her off the ground in the process, and his lips stretch into a beam at the sound of her delighted laugh in his ears, her arms tightening around him. 

_Just how I feel_

_Could you tell me what’s real?_

(Bucky feels like he got mauled by a truck by the time they stumble back into Wanda’s house.)

(One of the best nights of his life, by far.)

⁺˚*･༓

“Can I _please_ go to sleep, now?”

Wanda laughs on the other end of the line, and Bucky presses the phone closer to his ear to better hear it while adjusting his position on his mattress, draping his arm beneath his head. 

_“I’m almost done. And besides, you’re the one who insisted on staying up with me,”_ she reminds, and he listens to the sound of her typing away hurriedly at her laptop. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he murmurs tiredly. She’s determined to finish an application for a psychology program starting in the fall, the deadline for submission being in a few hours. With work, and spending most of her free time with him, she wasn’t able to complete it before, so she’s pretty determined to do it now. He had called her about three hours ago, wanting to keep her from accidentally falling asleep (which they _both_ know would’ve happened without his call) and was hellbent on staying awake with her until she finished her application. 

And it was working – until it wasn’t. 

Bucky quickly glances over at the clock on his nightstand, and winces slightly. 

_4:38 AM._

He shifts over to his side, eyes drifting over to his muted television, and a yawn accidentally escapes his throat. He hopes she doesn’t hear it. 

He’s wrong. 

_“James,”_ she says, there being a hidden threat in her tone that he knows far too well. _“You need to sleep.”_ He can tell she’s trying to pour enough sternness in her voice to get him to actually listen ( _yes,_ she’s been telling him to go to sleep for the last two hours, what about it?) and Bucky smiles at that. 

“So do you,” he retorts. “And _you_ have work tomorrow.” When she doesn’t answer, he huffs loudly, pushes himself out of bed and decides, “I’m coming over.” 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line – even her typing halts for a moment – and Bucky can almost picture her shocked expression. 

_“James, it’s almost five in the morning, and you’re exhausted.”_

He shrugs as if she can see it through the phone, and quickly tugs on a light jacket and a pair of sweatpants, then pulls one of his sweatshirts from his closet for Wanda. “I know. Which is why I’m going over there so I can sleep. And if you need it, I can pick up a coffee for you,” he offers.

Another pause, and this time a laugh follows. _“You’re something else, flirt.”_

Bucky grins, taking that as a yes, and he shoves his keys into his pocket before hurrying out the door. “You know you love me, doll.”

Wanda laughs again. _“Maybe I do.”_

⁺˚*･༓

“Can we go to the store?”

“You’re drunk,” he points out dryly, and Wanda scrunches her nose at the blunt term. 

“Am not!” she protests rather childishly, shooting up from his bed into a standing position – then she’s swaying, dragging one hand up to her forehead before collapsing right back down onto the mattress. 

Bucky snorts, amused, yet thrilled at the fact that he gets to see this side of her. “Fine, doll. You’re tipsy.”

Her pout smoothes into a content smile at his amendment. “I like tipsy.” Then the smile retracts back to the pout almost as quickly as it came. “James, _please_ can we go to the store? We’ve been here for _hours_.” 

Bucky laughs, and debates on whether or not he should whip out his phone and record this whole thing to show her later. “Doll, it’s three in the morning, and you had an entire bottle of vodka – which is _nasty,_ by the way, you didn’t even mix it.”

“ _You’re_ nasty,” she counters, sprawling her limbs out like a certified six-year-old. “And it won’t take long, we’ll be back before three-thirty. Please?” Wanda lifts her head from his pillow and gives him the most innocent, pleading face she could muster, and Bucky already knows he’s lost the argument. 

“Which store do you want to go to, and what do you want from it?” he asks, heaving out a longsuffering sigh. 

“The deli, and…” she looks up at the ceiling for a moment, obviously pondering his second question (and the sight is rather adorable) before grinning. “Anything.” 

“How about you tell me what you want from the deli, and I’ll go get it for you,” he suggests nonchalantly, and almost immediately, her pleading face is back. 

“But I want to come with you.”

Now he’s staring at her intently, waiting for her little facade to break until she’s smiling that brilliant smile, and soon enough, it does. 

Bucky groans, pushing himself off the carpeted floor, and flicks off the TV – he plucks his car keys from the television stand and when he looks over again, she’s beaming, making noises of excitement as she hops up from his bed again. She doesn’t fall this time, but she does stumble, and Bucky quickly shoots forward to grasp at her biceps to keep her from tipping. 

“You can barely walk,” he points out, and he runs his fingers through her disheveled (yet somehow _still_ perfect) hair – Wanda only shrugs with a dazed smile. He sighs and turns to bends down, straightening when he feels her arms wrap securely around his neck. Bucky tucks his hands behind the bends of her knees and props her up onto his back, resisting the urge to shiver at the feel of her breath against his neck when her head rests on his shoulder. 

He cranes his head to peer down at her. “You okay, doll?” 

She hums, and Bucky chuckles, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He can feel her smile against his neck, but Wanda only gently flicks him, and mutters, “Store, flirt.”

He laughs again, and starts towards the door. “Yes, ma’am.” 

⁺˚*･༓

“ _Doll,_ ” he whines, flopping down next to her on the towel as the sun harshly beats down against his skin. “Come _on,_ let’s do something fun.”

Wanda lifts her head from her book, her sunglasses masking the dry glare Bucky _knows_ she’s giving him. “We are doing something. I’m reading, and you're complaining about me reading.” 

“We’re at the _beach,_ ” he gestures around them for emphasis – the sound of the waves crashing against the sand fills his ears, and the golden sand sparkles underneath the sun’s attention. A longing frown pulls at his lips and he turns back to her relaxed form. “No one reads at the beach.”

Wanda pauses in her reading, and looks around. “What about her,” she points at a lady under a particularly large umbrella with a thick book clasped between her hands. “Or him.” She points at another man laying on his back, holding a much smaller book in front of his face. “Or him.” This time a young boy, sprawled out on a beach chair and flipping through a comic book boredly. 

Bucky crosses his arms and sticks his tongue out at her too smug expression. 

“I said let’s do something _fun_ ,” he grumbles _._

Wanda arches an eyebrow. “Are you implying I’m not fun?” 

“Not implying. Just stating,” Bucky retorts snarkily. “What’s the point of getting a bathing suit if you’re just gonna throw a tee over it and not even go in the water?” She shrugs, and when an idea crosses his mind, he continues, “I bet I’d win if we raced to the water.” 

Wanda gives him her full attention at that – she practically _lives_ for competition – and plucks her glasses from her face, narrowing her eyes at him. “What do I get if I win?” 

Bucky smirks. “Fries with milkshakes.” 

Her lips curve into a smirk of her own. “You’re on.” 

She folds her book shut and stands, pulling him to his feet. She tugs her t-shirt over her head and tosses it as his face, and he laughs as he dodges it. “Race you to the water?” she challenges. 

He grins, readying his stance. “You know I’m faster than you, doll.”

“We’ll see, flirt.” 

“On three. One, two—” Wanda bolts ahead laughing before he can finish counting, and Bucky sputters for a moment. “Hey! No fair!” 

He sprints along the warm sand then, arms pumping at his sides, and he catches up with her just before she can reach the water – she yelps as he lunges for her, grasping her hips and easily throwing her over his shoulder, and Bucky laughs, satisfied at the feel of the cool water against his feet. 

“James! That’s cheating!” 

“You cheated first, doll,” he says, adjusting his hold so that her legs are wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck, and he continues to trudge further, deeper into the water. “I win,” he says, grinning up at her cheekily, and she scrunches her face, her lips pulling into a small pout – he suddenly notices the _closeness_ of their faces, and the abrupt urge to kiss her nearly overwhelms him when a particularly large wave knocks him off his balance, sending them both tumbling into the salty water. He doesn’t let go of her though, and when he pulls them above the surface, he’s heaving for air in between laughs. 

She’s laughing, too, face split into a wide beam, and his breath catches at how _genuine_ and carefree it is – how much he loves seeing the expression on her. 

“Hey,” Wanda interrupts his mental observation. She moves a hand from the nape of his neck to push a wet, stray lock of hair from his forehead, and he feels his smile widen at her touch. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky replies a little breathlessly, and the urge to kiss her returns. He doesn’t, though. Not yet. “Perfect.”

And he means it. 

“You’re still getting me fries and milkshakes, flirt.”

⁺˚*･༓

_“Where do you see yourself in the future?”_

The question resounds in his mind and Bucky rests his chin on his hand, his elbow propped up against the window sill as he gazes out at the surrounding buildings. His lips curl into a smile as the answer soon finds him. “With you.” 

Wanda laughs softly, and the speaker of his phone slightly distorts it. _“James, be serious.”_

“I am,” he defends with a grin he knows she can’t see. 

But, in all honesty, he _is_ serious. He pictures days (years) full of evening drives, concerts, beach vacations, midnight walks, wide smiles, infectious laughter, _everything_ – and it’s all with her. Though they haven’t really talked about where they stand in terms of their relationship (they’re friends, of course, but there’s this undeniable _something_ between them, and he’s certain she feels it too), Bucky knows his future _is_ her, whether their bond will remain as close friends or evolve into something more – and he’d live out the rest of his days happily if it means she’ll be there with him. 

_“What does your future look like to you?”_ she asks again, and though his answer is the same, he decides to frame it in a different way. 

“It looks like a girl,” Bucky starts, taking the phone off the speaker and pressing it to his ear so she can better hear him, “with long, brown hair and green – sometimes brown eyes, who’s a waitress, I think?” Wanda breathes out a little laugh, muttering his name exasperatedly, and his smile widens as he continues, “Who wants to be a psychologist, because she’s a pretty damn amazing person who wants to help people, but who can honestly pull off being a model – I think that speaks for itself, since this girl’s absolutely stunning, and she has the _prettiest_ smile on the planet, in my opinion—”

 _“James,”_ she laughs, her voice cracking in surprise. 

“I mean it, Wanda,” he says, pouring as much earnestness into his voice as he can. “ _You’re_ my future.”

The line is silent for a moment, and Bucky starts to worry that he may have said the wrong thing, or been too forward, and _damn it,_ he probably messed everything up just now—

Then he hears her laugh – a watery, tearful laugh, and he’s amazed at how just hearing the sound can ease the panic away from his chest in a quick, fluid motion. 

_“And you’re mine.”_

⁺˚*･༓

He pushes the button to drop the roof of his car, and adjusts his seat until it’s all the way back – the stars are beaming down like spotlights, each begging for his attention as his eyes scour the sky, and he breathes out a content sigh. “Last day of summer, huh.”

Wanda adjusts her seat to the same position, and comments, “It went by so fast – I can’t believe fall starts tomorrow.” She’s quiet for a moment, then, “This summer’s been the best I’ve ever had, to be honest.” 

Bucky turns his head to peer over at her. “Why’s that?”

“Why else?” When he actually stops to think about it, Wanda ruffles his hair and says with an incredulous laugh, “Because of _you,_ flirt.”

“Oh,” Bucky replies, a little surprised. A teasing grin curls on his lips, and he stretches over to snake his arms around her torso and pull her from her seat into his. “Because you love me.”

His heart soars at her giggle (he’s _never_ heard her giggle – he’s glad she’s showing him sides to her no one else gets to see), practically beating out of his rib cage, and when she wraps her arms around his middle and presses her cheek to his chest, a string of words and admissions threaten to tumble from his lips right then and there. 

(For a split second, he wonders, _would it be so bad if she knew?_ )

(For weeks, he’s been trying to work up the courage to tell her how he felt, to no avail – but maybe today is the day.)

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek for a moment, debating whether or not _it’s time,_ and should he actually _do this,_ and he’s suddenly brought back to the day when he was deciding on calling her for the first time. (He’d taken that leap and landed without injury the first time – what’s one more?)

“Wanda,” he begins. She hums in reply, remaining comfortingly solid and still against him, her arms warm around his middle. He swallows, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before throwing caution to the wind. “You know I like you, right?” 

This time, she shifts, moving so that her head is tilted upwards, and her eyes – which are somehow even brighter than the stars above them – pierce his. “I know,” she says softly, and Bucky takes this as a sign to continue. 

“And I’m pretty sure you like me?” Uncertainty stains his voice. Wanda smiles a little at that, but he can’t help but spiral, “I mean, I _think_ you do, I don’t want to assume or put words in your mouth or anything, but I’ve been trying to say this for weeks and I never found the right moment because I might be wrong, who knows— _God,_ this isn’t going well—”

His rambles are cut off when she surges forward, moving a hand to the side of his face as she briefly presses her lips to his with an urgency that momentarily surprises him. 

Her lips are soft, is the first thing he registers. The second is that they just – _fit._ Like puzzle pieces that’ve been put together. 

And as soon as it comes, the kiss ends, and Bucky’s eyes are blown wide, his mouth slightly agape in shock. 

Then, a grin slowly manages to spread across his face. “That was a nice way of telling me to shut up,” he remarks. 

Wanda shakes her head with a light laugh, and he grasps her chin, leaning forward to kiss her a little slower, a little deeper. (They both end up smiling and laughing through it the entire time, so it was shorter, but no less amazing than Bucky expected.)

“James,” she says when they’ve parted, and her head is once again resting on his chest – when he looks down at her, her eyes are closed but her lips are tugged into a content smile. “I love you too.”

His heart leaps in his chest at her response to his unspoken words (and Bucky’s pretty sure she can feel his heartbeat’s increasing speed, for she breathes out a little chuckle). He tries to slow the spread of his beam, and asks hopefully, “As a friend, or like _that?_ ” 

Wanda laughs again, louder this time as her head lolls on his chest, and she shifts her legs so they’re intertwined with his, grabs his hand and threads their fingers together. “Like _that,_ flirt.”

Bucky smiles, squeezing her a little tighter while pulling his gaze back up to the stars, and with each moment of this past summer spent with her streaming through his mind like a recording, his eyes drift close.

He sends a silent thanks to Natasha for giving him her number, and to Steve for waking him up early that morning. 

* * *

**a/n:** hi! i’m new to ao3 but this story was posted on my ffn (fanfiction.net) account a few months ago under the same user, _floresque_. all of my previous works are over there if you’re interested, but from now on everything i post there will be posted here as well. reviews are always appreciated, let me know what you think!


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